


Ghost Stories

by readercat



Category: Murder In Mind, Shame (2011), X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2017-12-27 15:30:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readercat/pseuds/readercat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting in the mood for Halloween!  Just some one-shot ghost stories revolving around Cherik and various McFassy pairings.</p>
<p>A Walk in the Park 1/1--(Brandon/Martin)</p>
<p> Don't Worry, It's Just the Wind 3/3 (James and Michael)  (12/15:  added bit to the end of this chapter)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Story 1:  A Walk In The Park:  Brandon Sullivan/Martin Vosper

**Author's Note:**

> Though I've checked the Archive warning boxes for Rape/Non-Con, there is no rape in any of these stories--just some threats and non-con and/or dub-con touching (all instances fitting with the story line). As with any of my stories, constructive criticism is always welcome.
> 
> *there IS triggery stuff though, so be warned*

A Walk in the Park

     Brandon hated walking through the park at night.  Not so much because he was worried about being robbed or murdered (though certainly reasonable concerns), but more because there was simply too much temptation to be had.  Whenever he’d try to save time by cutting through the park, he _always_ ended up succumbing to that temptation…and, inevitably, would arrive home far later (and with a much lighter wallet) than if he‘d just gone his usual route.  As a sex addict, temptation was everywhere he looked, but the park in particular seemed to be his Achilles heel.  He had yet to go through that park that he didn’t wind up making at least one anonymous hookup (sometimes more).  Yeah, he’d learned long ago that if he had any hope of getting to bed (for sleep) at reasonable hour, he needed to avoid the park and take a cab or the subway whenever he had to work late.

     Tonight, though, it seemed as if the world was conspiring against him, leaving him with no choice in the matter.  First, he’d had a late meeting with a ‘difficult’ (aka, very rich asshole) client, who’d suddenly demanded that a big project be completed ahead of the scheduled deadline.  He‘d had to stay at the office unusually late in order to get it completed, and by the time he finally finished, it was well after dark.  He’d tried hailing a cab, but was unable to find one available because of all of the of trick-or-treaters and Halloween partiers swarming downtown.  Next, he’d walked all the way to the subway station, only to find that the train was down for repairs.  So then, he’d raced to the bus stop…reaching it just in time to watch the last bus of the evening pull away from the curb and roll off down the street.

     Adding insult to injury, the temperature had plummeted over the course of the evening, making for an unusually windy and bitterly cold Halloween night.  And having wanted to impress the client, he’d dressed for looks, not weather--a decision he was now deeply regretting.  Instead of wearing something practical, he’d taken special care with his appearance (not that he didn’t always look great).  He‘d dressed his long, lean body to perfection in a navy spin-stripe silk suit, crisp Egyptian-cotton shirt, leather Italian loafers, silk dress socks, and the piece de résistance: his favorite silk tie--the one that made the gray flecks in his gray-green eyes look blue.  He’d topped off his look with his obscenely expensive, perfectly-tailored wool coat and lamb-skin gloves (not nearly so warm as the practical, though still-nice, coat and gloves he usually wore), and what is now the only saving grace to his expensive outfit: a blue cashmere winter scarf (perfectly matched to his tie).  The scarf was the only he was wearing that was warm, and he now had it wrapped around as much of his head and neck as possible (not wanting to mess up his hair, he hadn‘t worn a hat, either).

     Sighing deeply (wincing as the freezing air enters his lungs), he contemplates his options: walk his usual route and freeze to death before he even made it home, or take the short-cut through the park and hopefully make it home before frost-bite set in.  It really wasn’t much of a contest. He was already shivering miserably--the wind was cutting through him like a knife and the seeping cold was already numbing his hands and feet (and everything else, for that matter).  He figured it would be safe to cut through the park this one time, since for once, he wasn’t even remotely interested in sex.  ‘ _Besides_ ,’ he thinks wryly, as he sets off in the direction of the park, ‘ _it’s so cold that if I am tempted to try anything, the fear of my frozen dick breaking off is a pretty good deterrent._ ’

      _So far, so good_.  Brandon is about three-quarters of the way through the park and has yet to encounter any prostitutes, crack-whores, drunken sluts, muggers, or anyone else that he’d normally be worried about running in to (or, under the right circumstances, _hoping_ to run in to).  The bitter cold has finally succeeded in driving even the most stalwart of souls to find someplace warm to hole up for the night.  No, he’s the only dumb bastard still out.  At least there’s no one around to impede his progress, and he’s beginning to think that he might actually make it home before his balls freeze off.  Just another five minutes and he’ll be out of the park. Five more, and he’ll home in his toasty warm condo, for once just content to put on his warmest sweats, crawl under the covers, maybe watch a little TV, then get some much-needed sleep.

     But as luck would have it, just as he reaches the edge of the park, he hears, “Well hello, handsome.”

     He knows he should just keep walking, but his curiosity at who would be so foolish (or desperate) as to be out in this weather stops him.  He turns in the direction of the voice, but doesn’t see anything at first. Then a figure steps out from behind a large tree.  The first thing Brandon notices is that he is not wearing a coat ( _How is he not frozen!?_ ).  When the figure is illuminated by the pale light of a nearby street lamp, Brandon is barely able to stifle his gasp--not from fear, but because the man--no, boy--is absolutely beautiful. Dressed all in white (or what used to be white, in better days), he leans back against the tree, his tight, slightly ratty long-sleeved t-shirt and indecently-tight jeans, showing off his slim body to its full advantage (it's clear that he's not wearing underpants).

     But as lovely as the boy’s body is, that’s not what has Brandon transfixed:  though the boy is clearly under-nourished, his face is like that of an angel from a renaissance painting.  His pale skin is like porcelain, his lips are impossibly red, and his thickly-lashed eyes are a luminous electric-blue eyes (easily visible even in the weak light).  His thick and wavy brown hair, frames his beautiful face and curls enticingly down onto his slender neck, drawing attention to the delicate-looking collar-bone exposed by his shirt.

     Brandon is unable to look away.

     The boy smiles invitingly, the look in his eyes decidedly _un_ -angelic. “See something you like, handsome?”

     The boy pushes away from the tree and saunters toward him.  Brandon is relieved to note that he looks a little older up close, though no less beautiful--his slight stature (he barely came up to Brandon‘s shoulder) had made him seem much younger. “Cat got your tongue?” he purrs to Brandon. “What a terrible shame. I was thinking of far better uses for it.”

     Lust has Brandon’s mouth so dry that he can’t speak, but he’s thinking that his dick may as well be frozen, for as hard as he is right now.  Men usually aren't his thing, but this boy would tempt a saint to blaspheme--and Brandon has never been accused of being a saint.  The fact that he doesn't already have the guy shoved up against that tree, fucking into him, is a testament to how terribly cold it is tonight. _How could he not be freezing to death?_ , he thinks again.

     Brandon finally finds his voice, fully intending to name a very generous price, cold be damned.  What were the chances of ever again coming across someone who looks like this?  Besides, the guy could obviously use the money.  But to his surprise, when he opens mouth to ask, _“How much?”_ , what comes out instead is, “Aren't you cold?”

    The boy…man…looks startled, but recovers quickly.  He smiles flirtatiously, making a show of shivering and rubbing his hands up and down his arms, saying, “Of course I am, love, but I was hoping you could warm me up.  I’m Martin, by the way.”

     Maybe it’s the cold keeping his head clear tonight, but Brandon can’t help but think that there is something _off_ about this guy.  Here Brandon is, about to literally freeze his nuts off, and this guy, Martin, is wandering around in a thin t-shirt and no coat.  If he didn’t know any better, Brandon would almost swear that they guy’s faking being cold.  His train of thought get derailed, though, when Martin looks up at him with those hot blue eyes and purrs, “Well, love…you gonna tell me your name or not?  I’d like to get to know you better.  Maybe we can warm each other--you’re looking a bit cold yourself.”

     “Brandon.  My name is Brandon.”

     Still purring at him, Martin says, “You have a lovely voice Brandon.  I bet it would sound very lovely shouting out my name when you come down my throat.”  He drops to his knees in front of Brandon, looking up at him with those gorgeous eyes.

     A surge of lust hits Brandon like a sledgehammer, but that niggling sense of something being _off_ , makes him say (even though he has to clear his throat first), “Normally, I‘d take you up on your very enticing offer, Martin, but don‘t you think it‘s a little too cold tonight?”

     The look in Martin‘s eyes turns from inviting, to strangely sinister, even he remains kneeling at Brandon‘s feet, “So, tell me, Brandon…what are you doing here in the park at night?  What were you looking for if you weren't looking for what I have to offer?”

     “I wasn’t looking for anything tonight, but a short-cut home.”

     Martin lets out a nasty little laugh, “Yeah, sure. I wish I had a dollar for every time I heard _that_ one.  Men like you, ‘just looking for a short-cut’, ‘just out for a walk’, or ‘got lost’--all eventually leading up to my personal favorite:   _‘I’ve never done anything like this before’_.”

     In spite of his growing wariness, Brandon finds himself getting angry.  He may be an unrepentant sex addict, but he’s not a liar.  “I’m miserably cold and freezing my balls off, so I can say with all honesty that I am _not_ ‘just out for a walk’.  I’m also ‘not lost’--I know exactly where I‘m going: home.  And I have done this before, probably even more times than you have--that’s why I try to stay away from the park.  But I‘ve had a long, shite day and all I want to do is get home before I freeze to death, so I decided to take the short-cut.”  He runs his hands through his hair in frustration, “It figures that the _one_ fucking time in my life that I _wasn‘t_ looking for sex, I get accused of doing exactly that!”

     Still kneeling at his feet, Martin looks a strange mixture of confused and defiant, “If you weren’t cruising, why didn’t you just walk away when I spoke to you?  Why are you still here if not for this?” he grasps Brandon by the hips and rubs his face against his front.

     “It would take a far better man than me to not be tempted by you.  I‘m not made of stone.”

     Martin rubs against him again, like a cat. “Are you sure?  I can feel how big and hard you are for me, even through your coat.”

     Brandon can’t help his hips moving at the sight and feel of Martin rubbing against him.  Blue eyes look up at him, strangely triumphant.  “That’s more like it, then!” Martin says slyly.

     Suddenly flirtatious again, he tells Brandon, “I have a place we can go.  You know, so I can suck you off proper.  Would you like that, love?  See me take that lovely big cock all the way?”  He grins impishly, “I can promise that’s one part of you that won’t freeze.”  
     

     Brandon just can’t shake the feeling that something is not right, though he still can’t quite put his finger on what it is.  Though it seems like one of the hardest (no pun intended) things he’s ever had to do, Brandon steps away from Martin.  “I’m sorry, you’re really lovely, but it’s just too cold tonight.  I need to get home and you need to go somewhere and warm up.”

     Martin jumps to his feet, and the look of rage that comes over his face makes Brandon very glad that he didn’t go off with him.   _“NO!!!”_ he screams at Brandon. “You can’t do that!  You have to come with me!”

     Brandon starts backing away, holding his hands out. “I just want to go home.”  
     

     Martin suddenly lunges at him, a knife appearing in his hand.  “NO!!! You have to come with me!! You can’t just leave!!”

     Brandon pulls out his wallet and shoves a wad of bills at Martin.  “Look, if money is all you need, here--take it! I won’t give you my cards, but you can have the all cash. There‘s enough for you to find food and a warm place to sleep for a few days.”

     “Nooo!!!” Martin howls, looking almost anguished. “This isn’t right! You can’t leave _do_ this!! You have to come with me!!”

     “No, Martin.  I’m going home.  Just take the money.  I’m giving it to you, no strings.  I was going to give it to you anyway.  Please, just get out of the cold.  I can’t stand the thought of you out here freezing.”  He’s surprised to find that he actually means it.

     Martin lets the knife drop to the ground and begins sobbing, “Why are you doing this!??  It‘s not supposed to be like this!!  This isn‘t how it goes!  You were supposed to come with me!”

     Brandon eases cautiously up to Martin, and shoves the wad of bills into his pocket, “I’m not supposed to help you?”

     “No.  No one helps.  No one ever helps.  They just hurt me.  They take what they want and never help.”  The confused sadness in his tear-filled eyes makes Brandon’s chest ache.

     “I‘m not going to hurt you, Martin.  And I don’t want to use you.  All I want is for you to get out of the cold and find someplace warm for the night.”

     “I’ve been so cold, for so long,” Martin says softly.  “It doesn't bother me anymore.”

     Brandon takes off his coat, ignoring the biting wind, and drapes it over Martin’s shoulders, easing his arms into the sleeves, and buttoning up to his chin.  Then winds the warm scarf around his neck.  The coat is ridiculously large on his slight frame, but Martin’s eyes are soft with wonder as he rubs his cheek against the soft cashmere and runs his grubby hands over the fine wool. He looks at Brandon, stunned.  “Why...?”

     “So you‘ll be warm.”

     “But--but, I can’t take your coat,” Martin says, even as his hands are still caressing the material.  
     

    “You need it more than I do.” Brandon is trying not to keep his violent shivering under control.  “If you can be out here without a coat all night, surely I can last a few minutes without one--I'm almost home.  Besides, you can sell it for a good price and buy yourself a proper coat.  I think you should keep the scarf, though--it matches your eyes perfectly.”

    “Brandon. I…” Martin wraps his arms around Brandon, hugging him tightly.  Brandon hugs him back just as tight.  They stay like that for a moment, sharing a warmth that has nothing to do with temperature.  They finally part, and Brandon leans down to kiss Martin on the cheek.

     “Goodbye, Martin. Take care of yourself.”  
   

     “You, too.”

     Brandon pulls the collar of his suit jacket around his face and neck and turns to walk away.

     “Brandon…”  
 

     “Yeah…?“ He turns to look back at Martin, and is stunned by what he sees.  Already beautiful, Martin now looks absolutely radiant, his eyes are wide with wonder and he looks…peaceful.  
     

     He gives Brandon a beatific smile, “Thank you so much for the coat…but, somehow, I don’t think I’ll be needing it anymore.”  
  
     And with that, Martin was gone.

     

     Brandon can never be sure how long he stands there, gaping at the spot where Martin had been--but where now, was only a discarded coat and scarf lying on the ground.  Finally, though, the cold forces him to move.  He picks up the coat and scarf and puts them on--shivers of a different kind running down his spine when he catches the faint scent of gingerbread, which hadn’t been there before.  Then he hauls ass out of the park, never more eager to get home--and for once hoping that his annoying little sister, Sissy, would be there.  
  
     

     He walks into the blessed warmth of his condo, relieved to hear, “Brandon!! Hey, I didn’t feel like cooking tonight, so I just ordered pizza. There’s still some left in the kitchen.”

     He knows how badly shaken he must be to be glad Sissy’s here.  Usually she grates on his nerves like nobody's business, but tonight he needs her around. Brandon’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have been able to sleep a wink if he’d had to spend the night alone. “Thanks, Sissy.”

     “Why are you so late, tonight?”

     “I had to stay over and finish a project. Then I couldn’t find a cab, the subway was down, I missed the bus, and ended up having to walk home.”  He takes a deep breath, “I took the short-cut through the park and ran into some trouble.”

     She looks worried, “Are you okay!?”

     “Yeah. I’m fine, just shaken up a bit.”

     “Ooohhh!  Just be lucky you didn’t run into the ghost!”

     He looks at her, startled, “What?”  
 

     Sissy grins at him, “You've never heard the story about ‘The Ghost in the Park’!?”

     “Ghost?!”

     “Yeah, that park near here is supposed to be haunted!”

     “Uh...No.  I've never heard that story,” Brandon says faintly.

     “I love ghost stories!  Sit down and let me tell it to you!” she says excitedly, pushing him down onto the couch.

     Settling in next to him, she begins. “OK.  Story goes, that about 20 years ago--on Halloween night, in fact--a young male prostitute was murdered in the park by one of his johns.  Supposedly, the prostitute tried to rob the john, but in the struggle, was stabbed with his own knife.  He was badly hurt, but they say that he would probably have lived if someone had tried to help him.  But...the john was a school teacher and afraid of ruining his reputation if anyone found out he‘d been cruising for young men--so he ran away, never calling for help, and left the prostitute to bleed to death.  Rumor has it that his ghost appears every year on the anniversary of his murder to take revenge for his untimely death.  And indeed, every year on Halloween night, there has been a man found murdered in that park--always reported to have last been seen leaving the path with a young man dressed all in white.”

     Brandon feels like he is going to pass out. “Well, I don’t think it's going to be a problem anymore.”

     Sissy frowns in confusion. “What?”

     “I said that I don’t think it's going to be a problem anymore.  Martin isn't going to be coming back again.”

     “Brandon!" Sissy pouts. "You said you hadn't heard this story!” 

     “I haven’t.”

     “Then how do you know his name?”

     Brandon rubs his hand over his face.  “You’re not going to believe me, but I have a ghost story to tell _you_.”

     Then while his sister listens, open-mouthed, Brandon recounts the tale of a late-night ghostly encounter between an lonely architect and the spirit of a murdered prostitute.


	2. Don't worry, It's Just the Wind Part 1/3 (James and Michael)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a prompt from LJ: The old Xavier mansion and a haunting. I'd really like it to be creepy rather than silly.
> 
> During filming of XMFC, Michael talks a reluctant James into exploring the crumbling old mansion which had been serving as the set for the Xavier School and house. Even though James has a terrifying experience inside the house, Michael's curiosity won't let him leave the place alone. And he soon learns that he should have listened to James. 
> 
>  
> 
> I know that the prompter wanted the story to be creepy, instead of silly, so I tried. This story starts out fairly light-hearted, but gets into the creepy/horror stuff pretty quick. I finished the first chapter and the last chapter already, but so I had a bit of troubled with the middle (even though I know how I want it to go), so I split into three chapters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was originally posted on AO3 as part of the McFassy Autumn Extravaganza on Live Journal (under my pseud Kitsygirl), but there was a mix-up with the with the OP and I decided to delete this story from that collection and add it as a chapter of my Ghost story...story. I'm gonna do a brand new Tom/Edward story for the McFassy Collection, which I've OK'd with the OP. 
> 
> A/N: I should point out that I am a ginormous chicken, so what I think is scary, might make you yawn.  
> P.S. I know jack-s*it about Catholicism--please don't be offended by my take on it. I'm just talking out my ass and I manage to make Supernatural look like high science. Any and all flights of fancy and out-and-out stupidity are mine alone.

     “I _still_ can’t believe I let you talk me into this!” James complains as he and Michael sneak back onto the set for the purpose of exploring the old, partially-refurbished mansion which had been serving as the setting for the “Xavier” school and house. ‘Matthew had wanted someplace that looked _authentic_ ’, James is thinking. ‘Well, if he was going for _Psycho_ meets _Amityville_ , he certainly hit the mark.

     “Oh, come on, James!” Michael is begging. “All I want to do is have a look about. It’s not like we’ve anything better to do and I‘ve been _dying_ to truly explore this place since we started filming!”

     “If I recall, you were also just _dying_ to race golf carts, and have a drinking contest, and a karaoke/drinking contest, and a dance competition, etcetera, etcetera. At least those were mildly interesting and kinda fun. Pardon me if I don’t share your enthusiasm for this mucking about in this old heap. If you’ve seen one moldy old castle, you’ve seen them all--and it’s not like Scotland, or Ireland for that matter, isn’t chock full of moldy old castles. The shiny has simply worn off for me.”

     “First off, this America, not _Britain_ ,” Michael says, knowing how much that irritates James, “or Ireland--and this is not a castle, it’s a mansion. Entirely different.”

     “I’m not _British_ , you wanker! And you know what the difference between a castle and a mansion is? One‘s in Europe and the other‘s in America…and maybe not _quite_ as old. Otherwise, no difference. None at all. Just old and moldy, dank and drafty.”

     Michael snorts and slaps an electric torch in James‘s hand. “Where’s your sense of adventure, James? I mean, think about it: the whole bloody place to ourselves and no one about to tell us what to do! We have free reign to explore to our heart’s content!” He looks at James with pleading eyes. “Come on, now! Please, James! It won’t be any fun alone.”

     James rolls his eyes at Michael’s obvious manipulation even as he sighs in defeat, knowing the battle is already lost. Contrary to popular belief (largely fueled by Michael), James is actually quite cautious and responsible. Unfortunately, he’s also notoriously soft-hearted--he hates to let anyone down or hurt their feelings. As a result, more often than not, he ends up being the reluctant accomplice to Michael’s hair-brained schemes. It seemed this time would be no different. Michael’s knack for getting them into trouble strikes again. “Fine,” James sighs again (extra loud to emphasize his reluctance). “Let’s get on with it then.”

     Michael grins triumphantly, teeth--all 800 of them--on full display. “Right, then! Now _that’s_ the James, I’ve come to know and love!”

     “I hate you.”

     Torches in hand, they search for, and finally locate an unlocked door and slip inside. They are greeted by the ever-present smell of mold, mildew, and wood-rot permeating the air in an all-out battle for supremacy over the combined aromas of the woodland creatures and other vermin that had taken up residence (and expired) within the crumbling plaster walls of the dilapidated mansion.

     “Jesus Christ, Michael! This place fucking **_STINKS_**! I will _never_ be more glad to finish filming at a location. The crew tends the lawn, refurbishes a couple of the rooms, uses a few clever camera angles… _and_ \--thanks in no small part to my superb acting skills--the viewing public never knows what a stench-ridden, filthy eyesore this place really is! I should be getting an Oscar-nod just for the fact that people don’t know that I’m throwing up in my mouth the entire time I’m in this shit-hole!”

     “Oh, hush! You’re being a baby.”

     “Oh, please! That’s easy for you to say! _Magneto_ doesn’t have to live here. Oh, no! Poor, invalid _Charles_ has to live here. Poor invalid, Charles--portrayed by poor, put-upon James McAvoy!”

     “Oh, for God’s sake, James! Don’t be so neg-- _ **AHHHH**_!” Michael yells when he steps on something that squeals loudly and skitters off into the unrenovated portion of the mansion, it‘s eyes glowing red in the torchlight.

     “I’m sorry, what was that…? I couldn‘t quite hear over your shrieks,” James says, not even trying to hide his smirk.

     Michael isn‘t an actor for nothing. “I wasn’t scared, I’ll have you know! Just startled is all.”

     The look he gets from James indicates that he may need to work on his acting skills.

     James sighs and runs his hands through his hair (or tries, muttering an annoyed, “… _fucking extensions!”_ ) then glances up at Michael, using the one-two punch of logic and kitten eyes (he doesn’t them deliberately as often as people think), “Look, Michael. You know that it’s really not safe for us to be here. Maybe we should just call it quits for now. We can always come back tomorrow and have a look about during the day. You know that they only fixed up a couple of the ground floor rooms--the rest of the place is falling down about us. Besides, we can’t see for shit in this place right now, anyway.”

     “But if we come back during the day, people will be around and we can’t really explore properly!” Michael whines.

     “If you’re really that intent on exploring this tatty old mausoleum, I promise to come back with you tomorrow. We’ll be able to move about faster in the daylight and be able to see more. Besides, everything in this place is rotted through. Say we go looking about tonight and the floor or stairs collapse or something awful like that and one of us gets hurt? We’d be stuck in this foul-smelling hellhole ‘til morning. At least if other people are about, we can get help if needed.” James goes for the coup-de-grace, “And it’s not like I have only myself to think of, you know. I have a wife and son to worry about.”

     “Oh, alright!” Michael pouts.

     His t-shirt, jeans, and Converse trainers, make him look like an overgrown child--which James tells him, adding, “You know, if you stomp your foot and cry, the picture would be complete.”

     Michael gives him a two-fingered salute and, for good-measure, the finger (he likes to brag that he’s _bi_ …lingual) and says, “Come on, then, Scaredy-cat. We’ll come back tomorrow when the boogey-man can’t get you.”

     “Piss off, you wanker!” James fires back, good-naturedly. “Now, let’s get out of here.”

 

_One hour later…_

 

     “You rancid, flea-bitten whore! You did this on purpose!”

     “No, James! I swear! I really thought this was the way,” Michael says desperately.

     “Really?! Well guess what, Michael?! We’re fucking _lost_!”

     James is kind of scary when he’s mad, Michael notes. “Just calm down, let me think.”

     He ignores James’s snort of derision and snide, “It’s a bit late for that don’t you think!?”

     Michael tries to concentrate, even though he is close to panicking. _Oh, shite!_ _I have not a fucking clue where we are!_ They’ve been wandering around the enormous old mansion for the last forty or so minutes, no longer trying to find a way out so much as simply trying to find anything that looks even _remotely_ familiar. Michael has a sinking feeling that James is right--they are well and truly lost. And in spite of Michael’s earlier enthusiasm to thoroughly explore, he is growing more and more uneasy the longer they are here. He knows it’s just his imagination getting the better of him, but he would almost swear that they were being followed. _Just vermin, I‘m sure._ But all the same, the feeling is unsettling, not that he would be mentioning any of this to James. And speaking of James…

     “Why the _fuck_ did I let you talk me into this?!” James is moaning wretchedly, his face buried in his hands. “I knew it was a bad idea! I never wanted to come to this creepy mother-fucking dump! But _noooo_! That just wouldn’t do. ‘Oh, _pleeeeease_ James. It won‘t be any _funnnn aloooone_!’ I am so stupid!”

     James has been bitching non-stop and Michael is about ready to strangle him. “James! James, look, I’m really sorry. I swear I didn’t do this on pur--”

     They both freeze as they hear a noise coming from behind them that sounds disturbingly like a long, slow exhale, followed by the sound of dragging footsteps.

     They look at each other, unable to hide the fear evident on both their faces. “What the fuck was that?!” James whispers hoarsely, his face pale.

     “The wind…?” Michael whispers back. “Yeah. Don't worry, it’s just the wind,” he says again, louder, not sure if he’s trying to reassure James or himself.

     “The fuck, it was! Since when does the wind wear shoes, you moron?!”

     “Calm down, James! You’ve been going on, non-stop I might add, about this place being a drafty, crumbling old heap--it’s hardly outside the realm of possibility for there to be drafts and strange noises.”

     “You know well and fucking good that was not the wind!” James hisses. “Someone is in here with us!”

     Michael is terrified James may be right--that feeling of being watched is still very much there. But he’s trying to keep calm--keep them both calm. Unfortunately, he makes the mistake of saying, “If someone is in here, James, you know it’s just someone from the cast or crew fucking with us. Probably filming you crying so they can post it to You Tube or Facebook for the whole world to see.”

     James’s pale face suddenly flushes red with embarrassment and anger, and he says loudly, all but growling, “Well, if that’s the case, I sure as fuck hope that the studio has them insured, ‘cus I’m going to beat the shit out of whoever it is!” He squares his shoulders, and before Michael can stop him, he takes off stomping down the hallway toward where the noises had come from and is soon swallowed up by the darkness.

      _Oh, shite!_ “James! James, wait! Come back!” Michael hadn’t meant to set him off like that--he’d only meant to lighten up the mood a bit, but like everything else tonight, his plan backfired miserably. He takes off after James, trying to ignore the sensation of being watched and his growing sense of dread--both of which are intensifying with every step.

     James is already regretting his impulsive decision to leave Michael and take off on his own. He doesn’t get truly angry often, but when he does…well, his temper is one of his few true faults. His pride is another. He didn’t mean to get so upset and go off like that, but when Michael said that it was just someone pranking them, trying to make fools of them (of _him,_ rather), he just lost the plot and went haring off. James regularly makes a fool of himself and is usually the first one to laugh over it--but being made a fool of by someone else is something different altogether. Over the years, his lack of height and his slight build have made him a little overly-sensitive to being ridiculed. He knows it’s stupid to feel this way (women--and not a few men--love him, after all), but he can’t help it--and now he‘s let his temper and pride get the better of him, leaving him in a bit of a spot. James never stays that level of angry for long, but even in the short amount of time it took him to cool off, he was so far down the hallway that there was no light left to see by. He’d left his torch back with Michael and it’s so dark now that James is no longer sure if he is even still traveling in the same direction--and he’s starting to remember what had scared him so badly earlier. No matter what that miserable arse, Michael, may have said--it was not the wind that they heard, nor was it someone from the cast or crew.

     “I know what I fucking heard!” he says to himself, shuddering a bit at the way his voice echoes slightly back at him in the apparently large space into which he has wandered. _Where the fuck_ was _Michael, anyway?_ It doesn’t seem like he should have been that far behind, but in the complete and utter darkness, James is starting to lose track of time. He does seems to vaguely remember Michael calling his name and hearing footsteps coming after him, but he was just too angry and dead-set on kicking someone’s arse at the time to pay attention. What if Michael’d gotten fed up with him and decided to leave him to find his own way out of this moldering heap? _Bastard!_

     His temper, which has started to ramp up again, comes to an abrupt halt and the hair on the back of his neck stands up when he hears that noise again. That long, slow exhale. Only it’s much closer this time.

     Much closer.

     James is getting ready to call out _“Michael…?”_ , when he suddenly becomes aware of the sensation of a numbing cold creeping over him and, even in the pitch blackness, can see his breath frosting up in the air. That exhaled breath comes again, hot as a blast-furnace right next to his ear, and he gags as his nose is assaulted by the smell of sulfur and rotting meat. The icy/hot touch of…something caresses the back of his neck, forcing him to his knees, and weak with terror he is unable to resist. His heart is pounding frantically and he can’t seem to breath properly.

     When, _something_ in the dark hisses, _“James…”_ and there is another touch to his neck--like an obscenely intimate lover’s kiss--he wets himself from fear. He was raised Catholic, but has not practiced Catholicism (or religion of any kind) in a very long time, but now he finds himself desperately uttering every prayer he’s ever known in hopes of gaining some small measure of protection from this… _thing_ touching him.

     James’s terror spikes when he hears the _thing_ hiss, growling, **_“NO!”_** But, then, abruptly, the deadly cold and that sulfur smell are gone and he can breathe again. He is on his hands and knees, weak and shaking, and covered in a cold sweat, but the _thing_ is gone. “Jesus Christ!” he rasps out--this time, meaning it as a prayer. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank yo--” He starts violently when he hears his name, but he’s flooded with relief as he recognizes the voice.

     It’s Michael.

 

     “James!! _James_ , where the fuck are you?!?”

      James can hardly speak, his mouth is so dry from fear, but he manages to call out for help.  “Michael!! Michael, I’m here!”

  
     “Fuck, James! I’ve been standing _right here_ , for ages, calling for you!  Why the hell didn’t you answer me!?”  Figuring that James had been getting back at him getting them into this mess, Michael is seriously pissed off and ready to give him down the road.  But when he shines the torch into the room, what he sees drives away all of his anger:  James is on his knees, shaking and utterly terrified.  His friend’s face is paler than Michael has ever seen and tears are running unchecked from his wide, blankly staring eyes.  What alarms him most is the dark stain on the front of James’s jeans from where he’s literally pissed himself from fear.  “Oh my God! _James!_ James, are you okay!?  What happened!?!”

  
     “We have to get out of here!  We have to get out of here _now_ , Michael!”  
     

     Michael kneels next to him.  “James, what _happened_!?”

  
     Wild-eyed, James grabs Michael‘s shirt, shaking him. “We have to get out of here now! _NOW_!!!” he screams. “Before it comes back!!!”

  
     Michael is already freaked out, but then James suddenly leaps to his feet, grabs an old lamp and tries to smash out the window (which strangely, neither of them had noticed before), muttering over and over, “We have to get out! We have to get out!”

  
     When Michael tries to grab James to keep him from hurting himself, James throws him off and starts slamming himself against the window.  Michael can hear the wood and glass cracking and pulls James out of the way just before the whole window frame collapses on him.  Michael gets James in a bear hug trying to at least hold him back until they can find out if it’s safe enough to exit through the broken window.  James is fighting like a wild-cat, suddenly breaking free and leaping onto the window ledge.  Still wild-eyed, he looks back at Michael, yelling, “Come on!  We’ve got to get _out_!”

  
     Frightened by James’s behavior, and still unable to shake that feeling of being followed, Michael doesn’t ask any more questions and scrambles out the window after James.  In unspoken agreement, they run from the house and the horrors inside.


	3. Don't worry, It's Just the Wind Part 2/3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael finds out that James was right all along and that he should have listened.

     Even after everything that had gone on the night before, when Michael arrived on set he was still alarmed how at haggard James looked.  The poor guy looked exhausted and ill--his skin was ashen and he had dark circles under his eyes from an obviously sleepless night.  He can’t say he’s entirely surprised, though.  No matter how many times Michael asked, begged even, James would not tell him what had scared him so badly.  He refused to talk about it and had gone straight to his hotel, still pale and shaking.  
     At the moment, James was in a very loud argument with Matthew over the scene they were supposed to shoot today--one where Charles was alone in the mansion.  James was refusing to go inside so that they could film his scene. “…don’t give a _FUCK_ what the shooting schedule is--I’m not spending one more _second_ in that fucking hell-hole!  If you don‘t like it, then fire me!”  he yells before stomping off to his trailer, leaving a stunned-looking Matthew--the entire cast and crew, in fact--gaping at him, shocked at his outburst.  
     Michael follows after him, intent on making James tell him what happened last night, after he’d left Michael in the hallway.  Whatever it was, James is not behaving like himself.  Michael has never seen him frightened of anything--not like this.  Michael will admit that the house is creepy and he’s not too enthused about being here anymore, either.  But since James won’t tell him what happened…he’ll just have to find out for himself.  Michael changes direction and heads back toward the mansion.  When he arrives, he is gripped by a sudden sense of foreboding--that same sense of dread that he’d felt last night when he had tried to follow James.  He hesitates, but at last, takes a deep breathe and steps over the threshold into the house.

     In the meantime, James has calmed down, and ashamed of how he’d acted out, gone back to the set and apologized to Matthew, to everyone.  He just wants to get on with filming--the sooner they can finish at this location, the better.  Just a few more scenes, they’ll be done with this place and he can go home.  He should be ok.  After all, there will be people about, and nothing bad has ever happened to him during the shoots.  He just needs to remember to never be alone and to not wander off into the other parts of the mansion--he doesn‘t think that either of those things will be a problem for him, though.

  
     Walking back into the mansion to set that is Charles’s study, James can’t stop the shudders running down his spine.  Even surrounded by all these other people, he’s still terrified.  He’s going to have to put a lot of extra effort into his performance, because there is no way that he’s going to stay here one second longer than he has to.  He vows to himself that after today, he’ll be known as “One-Take McAvoy”.  The thought is almost enough to make him smile.

     During a short break in filming later that day, James spots Michael standing at the edge of the set.  Michael only had one more small scene to film here, which wasn’t until tomorrow.  He usually liked to relax and sleep in when he had a chance, so James wondered what he was doing here. Maybe he’d had as hard a time sleeping as James.  He knew that he owed Michael an apology, too--as well as an explanation for his behavior last night, even though he knew Michael wouldn’t believe him.  
     He walks over, “Hey, Michael.  I figured you’d be sleeping in today.”  
     Michael’s expression looks a bit off, but he answers, “We are supposed to explore today, James.”  At James’s look, he adds, “You made a promise.”  
     “I’m sorry, Michael, but after last night I just can’t.  Please understand.”  
     The look in Michael’s eyes is strangely intent, “Why don’t you tell me what happened to you?”

     James realizes that while they’ve been talking, Michael has slowly been shuffling them toward the hallway where they got lost last night. When he tries to move back toward the set, he also realizes that Michael’s grip on his arm has become painfully tight.  
     

     Then the _thing_ inhabiting Michael Fassbender’s body _smiles_ and jerks James out of sight, into a room off of the corridor. 

  
     “If you scream, I’ll take one of them,” it says to James, indicating the set.  It rubs it‘s chin, thoughtfully.  “Perhaps the little blonde girl--I wonder how she would feel, coming back to herself in the middle of an orgy…?”  It looks James curiously, “Do you think it would break her mind?”  Then it grins obscenely, “Or do you think she would like it?”  
     James just whimpers in fear. _This is not happening._ This is not happening.  
     “It’s been so hard, deciding which one of you to take.  I have to admit, you have always been my first choice--you‘re so lovely and have so much to live for…” Then it scowls petulantly, “But after that nasty little trick you pulled last night…” it crosses it arms and snorts derisively, “Prayer!  Who _prays_ anymore and _means_ it!? Well, after that, I decided that it would be _so_ much more fun to watch you agonize over me taking your friend here.  Besides, I do have to admit that this body is quite fetching.  Don‘t you think so?  I‘ve certainly had a bit of fun with it already.”  
     The thing sweeps its hand over Michael’s body, squeezes his crotch, and winks lasciviously at James, “He wants you, you know.  The owner--former owner, excuse me--of this body wants you.”  It looks delighted, fairly bubbling with mirth as it cackles, “Oh my, he‘s _ever_ so horrified that I‘ve revealed his little secret.”  
      _Michael is still in there somewhere!_   Hoping to get through to him James rasps out, “Michael?  Michael!  Please, fight!”  
     “Oh, isn’t that adorable?” the thing chuckles and says conspiratorially, “He is very aware of what has happened to him, but he can do nothing about it.  He’s too weak to fight me.”  The thing smiles again, looking pleased with itself, “I made a good choice with this one.  Let‘s hear it for serendipity!”  
     James is desperately thinking of a way to escape, but is terrified that the thing will make good on its threat to harm Jennifer.  He’s thinking that he’s never been so terrified in his life until the thing says to him, “You know what will be truly delightful, James?  The terrible things that I will do to you with this body, the exquisite ways that I will make you hurt--and you won’t even be able to fight me, because you cannot bear to harm your friend.  And, no matter what else happens--if you even survive this--in the back of your mind, for the rest of your days, there will always be that little kernel of doubt that perhaps because he wanted you, he didn‘t fight me as hard as he could have.”

 

     James is laying on the cold, dirty floor, barely conscious.   He has been badly beaten (slowly tortured, really) and is bruised and bleeding from dozens of cuts.  The thing has not yet ‘violated’ him, though--in fact, it is looking increasingly frustrated.  But just as he begins to hope that it will just kill him and be done with it, the thing growls and starts tearing at Michael’s belt and jeans.  James just closes his eyes and begins praying again.  It worked last night ( _was_ it last night…? he’s losing track of time).  He doesn’t even pray for himself:  he prays for Michael, for Anne and Brendan, for the safety of the cast and crew, just for it to all be over.  
     When the thing wearing Michael’s face grabs him, he just looks into those gray-green eyes, and simply says, “I know this isn’t you, Michael.  I know this isn’t you.”  
     The thing laughs and hisses, “No, but that’s not stopping him from enjoying what I‘m about to do to you.”  
     This time James does pray for himself, “Please, God, save me from this!”  
     He hears that angry hiss again, and the thing shakes him. “Noooo!!!”  
     James opens his eyes and for a brief moment he sees Michael looking back at him.  
     Michael screams, “RUN!!!” and with every bit of his strength, he tackles James and together they crash through the door.  
     James is trying to run.  He can see that Michael is struggling to fight the thing still possessing him, trying to give James a last chance to escape.  But James is too hurt and exhausted and can’t move fast enough.   
     Michael sees that James isn't going to make it, so as his last act on this earth, Michael grabs a piece of wood from the splintered door and shoves it into his own  stomach.  
  
     When James and Michael had been found a short time later, all hell had broken loose.  The media circus surrounding ‘the incident’ had been horrifying, the rumors and insinuations like a nightmare.  He remembers seeing the photos of himself being taken out of the mansion by the paramedics--and worse, the photos of Michael’s body being removed by the coroner.  The police had questioned James for hours from his hospital bed.  All he could tell them was that he didn’t know why it had happened.  What else _could_ he tell them, after all?  
  
     At last, it had been concluded that Michael had been mentally ill and obsessed with James.  That perhaps he had planned a murder/suicide, but had been unable to kill James for whatever reason.  Perhaps he had come to his senses at the last moment and had been unable to live with what he had done to his friend.

    Only James knew the truth.

 

  


 


	4. Don't Worry, It's Only the Wind, Part 3/3 (James and Michael)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James deals with the aftermath of what happened at the mansion. Hopefully he can find a measure of peace along the way.

Six months later…

  
     Once again James stumbles through the door after another night of drinking himself numb. He’s made a habit of it these last few months, unable to cope with what happened at the mansion.  Whether he’s suffering from PTSD or Survivor‘s Guilt or simply lost his mind that night, he couldn‘t say.  What he _does_ know is that he is plagued by a lingering darkness, a heaviness inside him that is suffocating him. It is killing him bit by bit--oh, maybe not _physically_ (the alcohol is taking care of that just fine), but everything that is _James_ is dying--slowly, but surely. It hurts him and he needs so badly to just not feel, to not be terrified of what will be left when all that is _James_ is gone.  
     In the beginning, Anne was concerned about the drinking and his withdrawal from everyone and everything.  But after months of fruitlessly begging him to talk to her or to get help, she became hurt and angry.  Then, sad and resigned, she’d finally quit waiting up for him--quit talking to him, really.  He was glad at first, relieved that he didn’t have to talk to anyone anymore.  Now, he was just as sad and resigned as Anne (but thankfully, the drinking numbed his hurt).  And eventually, he’d gotten used to finding her already asleep when he’d finally stagger home drunk, and already gone when he’d finally manage to wake up hung-over from the previous night‘s binge.  
     But tonight, this morning rather, Anne is waiting up for him with Brendan sitting next to her.  They are both dressed. He can see that they’ve both been crying, but Anne’s eyes are determined.  When James spots a suitcase sitting next to the door, he hates her a little because he doesn’t want to feel--and no amount of alcohol can make him not feel what he knows is coming.  But he says nothing.  Fighting to remain upright (he’d hit the bars extra hard tonight), he just waits for her to say it.  
     Anne sighs and rubs her hand over her face. “James, I can’t take any more of this.”  She waves her hand at his drunk, swaying self.  “I love you and Brendan loves you--and we know you still love us, deep down--but you have to get help.  I need my husband back and, more importantly, Brendan needs his father back.  If you don’t get a handle on this, I’m going to file for divorce.  We just can’t go on this way and I have to do what‘s best for our son.”  
     Still James says nothing.  He’s afraid that if he opens his mouth right now, the animal sound of pain that’s fighting to come out would frighten them too badly.  
     She stands up and takes Brendan‘s hand and walks them to the door.  “You know this has been coming for some time, James.  I’m taking Brendan and going to stay with my family while you take some time to figure out what you want to do.  When you find out, you know where to find us.”  
     Still afraid to open his mouth, James can only nod numbly, hoping she can see in his eyes what he’s too afraid to try and say out loud.  He thinks maybe she does because she brushes her hand over his cheek.  “What happened with Michael…what happened _to_ Michael, wasn’t your fault.  Get yourself sorted out, James, before it‘s too late to fix things.”  
     He nods again, fighting not to cry, as she picks up the suitcase and leads Brendan out the door. Brendon looks back at him crying, and James gives him a small wave good-bye.  He on hangs on for as long as he can, hoping they get out of earshot before he lets go and gives in to his pain…and starts _feeling_ again.

  
     Anne is putting their suitcase into the boot of the car when the wordless screams and howls of rage and pain erupt from inside the house, audible even from the street (hopefully, Brendan can‘t hear it from inside the car).  As much as the sounds hurt her--and make her hurt for James--she can’t help but be relieved.  He’s kept everything inside for so long.  For better or worse, the scales have finally been tipped, and that horrible, numbing despair has been broken.  As Anne drives away, the thought that it was losing them that finally broke through to him, gives her a bit of hope that maybe, _just maybe_ , James will find his way back to them.

  
  
     Weeks, hours, days, minutes…how much time has passed before James comes back to himself, in the wreckage of what was once his living room, he doesn’t know.  However long it was, though, it was time enough for him to destroy everything that could possibly be destroyed--if his sore body, bruised hands, and bloody, broken fingernails are anything to go by.  The room is littered with broken wood, ripped fabric, shards of broken glass, and chunks of plaster (from where he evidently punched holes in the walls).  Books have been literally ripped apart and shreds of paper are still fluttering about, mixing with the little pink dandelion-fluffs of insulation.  The sofa has been ripped open and overturned and his recliner chair is lying upside-down on the other side of the room--partially embedded in the wall.  Though his throat is raw from screaming and he is utterly exhausted and trembling from exertion, for the first time in a long while, his mind is clear and he can think.  And while he is far from okay, he thinks he know now what he needs to do to rid him self of what‘s been plaguing him.

     Tentatively entering the church sanctuary, James seeks out the confessionals.  It’s time to tell someone what happened.  What had happened to him and Michael. He’s carried the burden of that knowledge inside of himself for far too long.   _That’s_ what’s been eating away at him--the guilt and shame of not doing right by his friend is what won’t let go.  It is what is keeping James a prisoner.  Someone besides James needs to know that it wasn’t Michael who did those things and how he _knows_ that it wasn’t Michael.  And the Church needs to know that Michael didn’t kill himself--he sacrificed himself to save James and deserves a Catholic burial so that he can be at peace.  And who better to tell than a priest, right?  Somewhere that it’s safe to talk, surrounded by all of these holy things (even though he knows by now, that it’s your faith that’s important).  He can get it out of his system, confess, atone, and get some much needed advice all in one fell swoop.  
     James finds and open confessional and settles in.  “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been 18 years since my last confession…”

   
     Two days later James is in Ireland, standing at the entrance to a small cemetery outside of the town of Killarney.  The cemetery to where Michael’s body had very recently been moved and re-interred, this time with a proper Catholic burial.  He still can’t quite process that they believed him and did as he asked.  He supposes that celebrity has its perks.  He takes a deep breath and walks up the hill to where he was told Michael’s grave was located. The wind is fierce and cold on the lonely hilltop and James draws his coat tight around him as he stands at the foot of the grave.  
     Following the instructions given to him by the priest to whom he had made his confession, he kneels and takes a small garden spade out of his coat pocket, using it to dig out a small hole in the dirt.  Next he pulls out a small crucifix, which the priest had blessed, places it in the hole and fills it in.  He then sprinkles holy water on the grave and draws a circle around the grave with salt, tossing a handful on top for good measure.  He tells Michael how sorry he is for staying silent so long and how much he Michael’s sacrifice meant to him and his family.  “You gave your life for mine, so I could be there for my family and I went and nearly cocked up.  I won’t take them or what you did for granted ever again. I promise.”  
     Finally, he says a prayer for Michael’s soul--and because he‘s James and can‘t help himself, adds “Goodbye, my friend.”

     He’ll never be sure if it really worked and Michael was finally at peace or if it was simply the act of atonement on his own part, but James can feel that last bit of darkness in his soul finally leave him.  The heavens seem to agree because the clouds part and the sun shines down bright and strong.  James slips on his shades and heads back toward his rental.  He can’t stop the wide smile that spreads over his face at how good and free he feels.  It’s been so long since he’s even able to force himself to smile, much less wanted to.  The wind is still fierce and cold, but it’s not bothering him now.  He fishes his mobile out of his pocket--unbelievably, he has a signal--and dials.  “Anne…? Would you mind if I came ‘round for a visit?………Yeah. Yeah, I‘ve got it sorted out now……...Let’s just say that my issues have been laid to rest………Yeah, I‘m headed to the airport now………Love you, too. Give Brendan a kiss for me. I‘ll see you soon.”  He ends the call, and for just a split second, he thinks he hears something that he could have sworn sounded like laughter and _“Thank you.”_  
     

     But this time he knows: “It’s just the wind.”  Still smiling, and with no thoughts other than the joy of reuniting with his family, James walks on down the hill in the brilliant sunlight, never looking back.  
  
  
     …But if had, he would have seen the image of Michael Fassbender standing beside his grave, laughing at him and shaking his head in fond exasperation before waving good-bye and walking off into an altogether different kind of light.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
